They moved across the open. The rain was still beating down relentlessly upon them. Little pools of water were spreading across the football ground. There was a melancholy mist about the distant houses. They were dog-tired. Whilst they went, their heads bowed a little to the downpour, Rouse spoke no further word, not, however, because he was wondering in his heart what was to be the outcome of that great game, but curiously enough because his mind was busily planning how he could manage to get another hot bath before he went to bed. When, therefore, right outside Morley’s, a figure came suddenly towards them, Rouse looked up with a start. Then he stopped. It was impossible to mistake the build of that young man. It was Christopher Woolf Roe. Instinctively the captain of cricket and the captain of football drew near to one another and waited for him to speak. They had not long to wait. He stopped in front of them and looked at Rouse. “The Headmaster would like to speak to you,” he said. Rouse eyed him good-humouredly. “Did the Headmaster give you a _note_?” “No, he didn’t. He said you were to go to his room directly you came in and wait there till he came back.” Rouse shook his head sadly. “I wonder if he knows that in my present condition I shall leave a pool of water wherever I stand?” said he. “It seems such a pity to spoil his carpet, doesn’t it? Besides, I shall sneeze so. And sneezing always makes him cross.” Roe looked him slowly up and down with his pig-like eyes. “The fact is,” said he, with ill-concealed delight, “you’re in for it.” “If you mean to imply,” said Rouse, “that the Head is getting up a raffle, let me say that you are mistaken. I shall not be in for it.” There was a moment’s pause. “All right,” said Roe at last. “I’ve told you, haven’t I?” He moved haughtily away, his duty done. Rouse and Terence looked thoughtfully after him. “I think I’ll go along,” said Rouse, in a low voice. “When he sees how wet I am he’ll cut it short.” “I’ll come along too.” Rouse laid a restraining hand upon his shoulder. “No. Leave things alone for now. I’ll go and see what he’s got to say. There’ll be plenty of time for you afterwards. Go in and see if you can’t bag me a hot bath! And,” he added over his shoulder as he was moving off, “somewhere in my study there’s a tin of sardines. It would be a rather pleasing thought if you bust it open so that we can give them a decent burial on a slice of bread.” Terence made no answer: he just stood hesitantly where Rouse had left him watching as he went to meet his doom. And now the way across the sodden football ground seemed very long. Only now that he was alone, and going backward instead of forward, did Rouse thoroughly realise the ache that was in his legs. Each footstep became a dragging effort.